


The Captain and the King

by Oshun



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:19:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29316210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/pseuds/Oshun
Summary: Gil-galad read the note: "Expect him in the morning two days hence, allowing for weather. Keep an eye out for his ship—Númerrámar."
Relationships: Tar-Aldarion/Ereinion Gil-galad
Comments: 38
Kudos: 10
Collections: 2021 My Slashy Valentine





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keiliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/gifts).



> Hope that you are able to enjoy this! I really have a lot of nerve. This is essentially Keiliss fanfiction.

“What does he look like? What does it matter?” Círdan grumbled, squinting against the reflection upon the water of the last rays of sunlight. “Fine! He’s well-built, nice features, taller than his grandfather. One can see his connection to Elros and Elrond but he reminds me more, because of his yellow hair, of the light-haired people of the House of Hador.”

“Sooo,” Gil-galad drawled in a querulous tone, “you want me to entertain this lad while you talk with his grandfather about shipbuilding, currents, weather, and raw material for making ropes?” Gil-galad couldn’t pretend he thought he was too busy or important to spend time with this young descendant of the line of Elros. But he did enjoy riling up his foster-father when he used a paternalistic tone. He chuckled softly under his breath at Círdan’s unconscious temerity at giving him the assignment, as though he were still a reluctant schoolboy and not the king. It was rare, unprecedented actually, to have the opportunity to meet an heir to the throne of Númenor.

“You don’t have to entertain him. He is smart and curious. He’ll amuse himself. I expect he will have a lot of questions and you do love to talk on and on about your people and your plans.”

“I can do that, but won’t that bore him?”

“He is not a child. He is young but well-educated and competent. He has been sailing for years and has been captaining ships transporting goods and correspondence between Rómenna and the other side of the island. This might be his first trip this far.” Círdan released a long-suffering sigh. “He’s asked to meet you especially.”

Gil-galad could not control a laugh. “Well, then it is my solemn duty,” he said with grin he knew would aggravate Círdan.


	2. The Sailor Who Came in from the Sea

‘What did you see, _onya_ , in your far journeys that now lives most in memory?’   
But Aldarion, looking east towards the night, was silent. At last he answered,  
but softly, as one that speaks to himself: ‘The fair people of the Elves?  
The green shores? The mountains wreathed in cloud?  
The regions of mist and shadow beyond guess? I do not know.’

– _Unfinished Tales_

  
It was weeks before Gil-galad heard anything further from the ancient Elf. Instead of showing up with the Númenórean sea captain and his royal grandson, Círdan sent a note with the regular mail delivery:

> The prince is coming alone. Expect him in the morning two days hence, allowing for weather. Keep an eye out for his ship— _Númerrámar._ You cannot miss her, she is a beauty. His given name is Anardil. The two of you can sort out how you will address one another.

As Gil-galad might have known to expect—nothing was ever simple—that very evening he received a storm warning from Círdan’s cosmologist. He had no idea if the lad’s ship would leave early in light of the warning or would wait until the threat had passed. In any case, he checked at the harbor in the morning to find the storm had missed them entirely but no ship by the name of _Númerrámar_ had docked. He wasn’t sure if he should have expected it that morning or the next. There was nothing he could do, in any case, but wait.  
  
He received a message mid-morning the following day from the port master that the ship had docked. But the messenger bore no greetings from the prince. Gil had been nailed to his desk since dawn going over figures with his treasury and other tedious details with his counsellors to allow him to take a couple of days off. He was starving. Instead of exchanging a frustrating series of messages back and forth to the ship, he decided to stretch his legs and walk down to the harbor himself. The thought of a cup of kaffe and some vegetable fritters from one of his favorite vendors on the lane leading to the harbor propelled him forward at an energetic clip.  
  
He reached the harbor in a few minutes, an easy walk downhill from the palace. And there he spotted the ship, newly arrived from the Havens. It was larger than Gil had envisioned. A perfect meld of traditional artisanship and modern shipbuilding technology, graceful and yet imposing. It rode high in water since it held no heavy cargo. Its paint looked newly applied from where he stood—its hull a gleaming black with the white above accented by a deep red stripe.  
  
The presence of a significant influx of visitors created a festival mood at the port. Food carts had appeared in full force and all manner of other vendors were busy setting out their wares.  
  
The upper deck of the ship swarmed with sharp-looking sailors securing the vessel and eager to disembark. Gil noticed the first few sailors to take their leave of the vessel trickling down the gangplank and onto the lane. Impressive in their shore-going rig, they walked in clumps toward the visiting sailors’ hostel— _Distant Shores_ —where Círdan had reserved them, as honored guests, the establishment’s most comfortable quarters. Most of them, at liberty as they were, had already begun to shrug off their outer jackets in the noontime sun. They casually talked and laughed amongst themselves, but were notably well-behaved for disembarking sailors. He made the observation that their young captain ran a well-disciplined but happy ship.  
  
Then he noticed a tall, handsome sailor, sitting on a barrel outside of the most popular wharf-side pie shop, wolfing down one of its celebrated deep-fried, spiced-pork pies. The fellow looked around the harbor with an intelligent and amiable curiosity, licking the grease off his long fingers. ‘I should approach him and ask where to find his prince,’ Gil thought.  
  
“Good day, sailor,” Gil said, unable to control a big grin. “Might you be able to help me find your captain?”  
  
“I’d be most happy to, my lord,” said the young sailor, leaping to his feet with a smile and a bow. “You are speaking with him. I am Captain Anardil and that beauty behind us is my ship _Númerrámar_ _.”_  
  
“She is a stunner,” said Gil, laughing. “Bigger than I had imagined! You’re not at all what I expected either.” He had no idea what he had anticipated, but it was not this broad-shouldered, gorgeous lad with a wide good-natured smile.  
  
“And who might you be, sir?” he asked, with what Gil would have sworn was more than a hint of animal attraction. Perhaps he was simply projecting a jovial, extroverted nature.  
  
It would be just like Círdan, of course, not to have mentioned the outstanding attractiveness of their guest. He, no doubt, simply failed to take note of it despite his never well-concealed disapproval of his king’s attraction to just such a specimen. Gil let loose a self-deprecating huff and gave the young man what he hoped was a dazzling smile, while warning himself to be cautious. It was one thing to admire the contrast of those bright blue eyes against the deeply tanned face of such a beautiful youth among his own people—to allow any such self-indulgent daydreaming concerning a foreign sailor of the Secondborn, and royalty at that, was ill-advised and inappropriate.  
  
“I am Ereinion Gil-galad—your host for the next period.” He stuck out his hand, eager to cut through any bowing and scraping formalities. He was talking to the heir to the throne of Númenor after all. There was no need to stand on ceremony one-on-one.  
  
Anardil gave his hand a firm shake and laughed, his broad smile showing gleaming white and perfectly aligned teeth. “You are nothing like I had imagined either, sire!”  
  
They stood gripping hands and looking one another up and down, laughing at themselves and one another, their mutual affinity strong and instant. “I am sure you’ve heard from others of my compatriots what we outlanders expect of Elves—willowy, ethereal, and serious in an off-putting way.”  
  
“Ha! You should have met my father!”  
  
“Indeed! And what was he like?”  
  
“Louder even than me. Warm. Outgoing. And as fine-looking as he was strongly built. Nothing willowy or remote about him. Admittedly, my memories are those of a child, but everyone seemed to love Fingon.”[1]  
  
“Fingon the Valiant. Amazing. I am talking to a legend.”  
  
“Hardly! I’ve never expected or received the type of devotion he inspired back in those days. I am content with being considered a competent and approachable ruler. I’d heard that you are some sort of boy wonder—youngest captain amongst Vëantur’s illustrious Venturers Guild.”  
  
“To be honest, I might remind you that Vëantur _is_ my grandfather. One could say I might have started young from a position of privilege, My Lord.”  
  
“Gil is good enough. Don’t be modest. You forget that I know Vëantur. He seems more likely to set higher standards for you than to extend any unearned advantage based upon family connections.”  
  
“As a child, I was big for my age, bright, overly active, and mad for the sea—an irresistible temptation for my grandsire to take charge of my education. One might say a perfect storm! So I did get an early start.”  
  
Talking with Anardil made him more conscious of the young man’s casual confidence and maturity. This was no wet behind the ears pup but the captain of that grand ship, dwarfing all the other vessels around her, a proud and immaculately maintained example of the floating wealth which made up the rapidly expanding Númenórean fleet. Vëantur would not entrust a ship like this to a grandson, no matter how much he favored him, if he were not be able to maintain it. And, doing so would require him to be a skilled and inspiring leader capable of ensuring the safety and security of the grand vessel and its crew.  
  
Anardil had finished his pie, neatly cleaning his hands with his handkerchief while unabashedly studying Gil. “I planned to send a messenger to inform you of my arrival after I had cleaned up and changed.”  
  
“You can more easily bathe and find refreshment at the palace. I’ll send for your luggage. Your rooms are ready so you can rest for a while there if that is your preference. Or would you like another pie first? We probably don’t have anything so satisfyingly greasy and homely in our kitchens. My chef looks down on so-called street food.”  
  
“Perhaps we can come back another time. I do have a fondness for seaport vendors. More than anything, I would love a bath. I am uncommonly sweaty and salty. We ran into the squally end of a storm last night. I got wet through twice.” His eyes twinkled, almost preternaturally pale contrasted against his sun-bronzed skin. “Grandfather promised me I would enjoy your hospitality. He thinks highly of you and your accommodations!” He gave Gil a cheeky grin.  
  
“It will be my great pleasure to make you as comfortable as I can.” Gil tried to fight his natural inclination to flirt. The prince seemed relaxed enough to invite equally casual and friendly responses. But this was diplomacy and of significant importance to both sides. “I had reports of that storm. I hoped you might miss it entirely.”  
  
“I can’t complain. We had heavy rainfall and strong winds that kept us on our toes for a while but we avoided the worst of the storm.”  
  
They continued to slowly amble up the cobbled street leading gently away from the harbor. As they reached the crest of the hill, the palace came fully into view. Gil was proud of how it looked outlined against the blue of the sky. He had spent several years overseeing its design and construction.  
  
There was a wider, more level avenue that curved around the foot of the incline and led to the front entrance of the palace grounds, but Gil loved the vantage point from the top of this hillock. One could see the entire palace and its grounds. He never got tired of showing it to visitors for the first time. His own unsettled youth left him appreciative of this cluster of buildings that he thought of as his first real home.   
  
“Oh, this is lovely. We saw the front of palace as we approached the port this morning, but the perspective from here is quite different. It is so sprawling and open. I expected high battlements and defensive towers.”  
  
“I’m proud of it,” Gil said. “It is not a military outpost but a political and administrative center. Two things that Orcs fear most are the sea and sunlight. I tried to take advantage of that. The ongoing threats we face in this Age harry us at our far peripheries and outlying settlements. You might be interested in speaking with Glorfindel while you are here. He is the head of our armed forces and loves to discuss our defenses or lack thereof.”  
  
“That will be a pleasure indeed! I think I would like to freshen up and rest a while before you start introducing me to such illustrious figures.”  
  
“Of course. I was thinking of tomorrow or even later. Perhaps tonight we can have a dinner alone. You will stay awhile won’t you? We have an early music festival coming up later in the month. I am sure you and your crew would enjoy it. It includes all kinds of music, singing, dancing, eating and drinking . . . things sailors tend to like.”  
  
Several hours later, Gil sat with a rested and refreshed Anardil on a second-floor balcony facing the setting sun.  
  
“Everything about this place and the way you live feels familiar but totally different. I am constantly aware of how much of our culture in Númenor is evocative of yours—due no doubt to our first ruler Tar-Minyatur, your kinsman Elros. It’s overwhelming that for me he is an ancestor, a distant historical figure, the founder of our line of kings, and yet for you he was a real person, who had a childhood, and has a living brother. You tutored him here in this very palace as a young man to become a worthy leader.”  
  
Anardil flashed his wide smile at Gil. He did look well-rested. His soft, clean hair, rinsed of salt and grime, looked lighter hanging loose around his face and fluttering softly in the gentle ocean breeze. “I am rambling!” he said, with an unselfconscious laugh.  
  
“Not at all. I am totally fascinated by your impressions. I am not what you might call a type disposed to philosophical observations. I tend to get wrapped up in the quotidian tasks of governance. I want to hear more of how we appear to you.” A servant entered bearing a large tray with a carafe of wine, a platter of assorted olives, cheeses, flatbreads, and plate of sliced fresh fruit.  
  
“Let me offer you a glass of this Dorwinion. I have been told it is good for its kind.” Gil watched him raise the glass and examine its contents with a look of serious interest—he swirled, sniffed, and then tasted the wine.  
  
“It is better than good, sir,” he said. “It is wonderful.”  
  
Gil grinned. “You seem to know your wines.”  
  
Anardil grinned back at him and blushed. “I suppose I know what I like.” They both laughed.  
  
Afraid he might have embarrassed the lad, Gil quickly changed the subject. “I would have loved to have seen Elros as a king. I watched his brother grow and change so much after he left. Elrond was a rebellious young Elf, resentful of the hand he had been dealt, unhappy about losing his brother, but he settled a lot. He has turned what he has endured into a well of understanding and compassion for the suffering of others.”  
  
“One would have thought that given the usual descriptions of the differences between Elves and Men that our first king would have changed more and Elrond less. But your descriptions might indicate the opposite is true.” He colored again. “Of course, I learned what I know about our founder only from the history books.”  
  
Gil responded, “It is true I have a long memory and lived through these events, but even Elven memory is not flawless. Our emotions and our personal experiences continue to affect how one recalls the past. Prejudices and trauma can subtly alter one’s memories.”  
  
“Ha!” Anardil tossed back his head and laughed. “So true! Our thinkers often say that written history may tell us as much about the writer as the peoples they describe. Our history tells us that the Valar sent us to a perfect island designed to provide us with everything we need to lead free and happy lives. The truth is that it remains an island. And free and happy people tend to reproduce! Our land is finite and surrounded by the sea.” He took a deep breath, as though reluctant to go on. “Naturally, we have looked to the sea . . .” His voice trailed off and he looked beseechingly at Gil as though he hoped he would finish the thought for him.  
  
Gil was certain that he could see where this discussion was leading. It was growing clearer and clearer why Anardil had been so anxious to meet him personally. Númenor’s thriving population was running out of land and resources, while Gil had more land than he could oversee with a scattered, often beleaguered, population that he could not always protect.  
  
But Gil did not throw him the rope he hoped for. He wanted to hear Anardil's version. Instead he said, “Please go on. I am listening.” It seemed a bit unkind, but he needed for him to present how he interpreted the situation.  
  
Anardil tossed an olive into his mouth and chewed. He neatly spit the pit into his palm and placed it upon his plate. He looked into Gil’s eyes without wavering but took a huge gulp of his wine, liquid courage perhaps. “First, I need trees for our ships. I also have people who need land where they may settle and farm or gaze herds. We have many craftsmen, scholars, and younger sons who feel constrained by the limitations of our isle.” Gil liked that the lad did not intend to beat around the bush. He was as transparent as those clear blue eyes might lead one to believe. Gil was not any kind of thought-reader but he could tell if someone was hiding something.  
  
“If you can tell me what you need, perhaps we can help one another.”  
  
“We seek security and peace for our people,” Gil said. “We have never regained the population we lost in the Great War, the emigration of my people to the Undying Lands, and the departure of those who left to settle your Land of Gift.” He sighed deeply wondering if the prince realized how incomplete the victory over Morgoth’s minions had been in that war. “It is only along the most populated areas of our coast that one can guarantee absolute freedom from marauding Orc bands. Throughout Eregion, Elves, Men, and Dwarves co-exist, trade, and dwell largely in a watchful peace. Beyond the mountains Silvan Elves have their own communities. The Avari do not form organized communities or practice agriculture in any but the most primitive and impermanent manner but exist as they ever have since long before the rising of the Sun and the Moon.”  
  
“I have heard much of this from Vëantur. He said the wilderness areas are rough and dangerous—still filled with remnants of the Dark Lord’s fiends.”  
  
“Your grandfather is right about both things. Evil creatures occupy pockets of those unsettled lands to the east and south. The weather conditions are often harsh—cold, wet winters to the east and north and hot, arid lands to the south. This vast land is not a simply a larger version of your island paradise. It is filled with well-nigh uncrossable mountains, dense forests, swamp lands, raging rivers, and volcanoes.”  
  
“Are there no communities of Men in those remote parts?”  
  
“There are Men in both the east and the south but we know little of them except that when encountered they are often found to have fallen into a darkness that is reminiscent of those enthralled to Morgoth in the last Age. To put it simply, the armies of the West uprooted Morgoth and banished him and many of his minions, but far from all. His influence still casts its shadow over the lives of many in isolated areas.”  
  
“One often thinks of the Valar as the fount of all wisdom but apparently they are not.” Anardil said, looking shocked and more than mildly appalled. Gil could not resist laughing aloud.  
  
“You are over simplifying!” he said.  
  
Anardil’s face clouded over in anger or confusion, or maybe both and he stuck his lower lip out in the most attractive way. Gil chuckled again.  
  
“Don’t take that wrong. I do it myself. Círdan has tried to explain to me that it is the intent of Eru that we, Elves and Men, have free will and must determine our own fates. But the Ainur, who may, in many ways, be wiser than us, have perhaps exercised an overly protective instinct and are fallible as well.”  
  
“They surely are!" Anardil said, glaring at Gil with a boyishly grumpy face. “Look at Sauron! Not to mention Morgoth himself! Seems like we have been given enough rope to hang ourselves.”  
  
Gil did not mean to tease him, but he could not control a grin. “Maybe,” Gil drawled, still smiling. “Or maybe we are supposed to learn from our past mistakes.” He shrugged. “I do the best I can do. That’s all any of us can do.”  
  
Anardil squirmed in his chair. “Do you think we could go for walk? I am feeling stiff and dying of curiosity. Show me more of how you live!”  
  
“With great pleasure! We can pick up this discussion again later. I do feel we have things we might be able to do for one another, but there are a lot of angles we must consider.” Anardil gave a sharp, almost businesslike, nod to him, but somehow looked more relaxed again.  
  
Gil wanted to defer any serious negotiations until he had time to think and learn to know the prince better. He did want to show his guest his beloved palace and its surroundings. “Want to see our formal gardens in the moonlight?” He thought the remark sounded like something a suitor might say to a potential sweetheart. What a blunder that could have been. He felt his cheeks burning in the evening shadows of the terrace. He needed to rein in these feelings of attraction for the young mortal.  
  
A perceptive and kind-hearted lad, Anardil defused any tension with a gentle taunt. “How romantic! Who could resist that offer? Certainly, not I. Actually, my mother will be desperate for a description of your palace gardens. Although, I know next to nothing about decorative horticulture.” He released a soft laugh almost a giggle and, for a moment, seemed excruciatingly young to Gil.  
  
The king considered the fact that he had never been dismissive or off-putting with Men and could still be considered young by the reckoning of most of his Elven compatriots. Being around this charming but serious youth made Gil feel hopeful of a future friendship at least, if no more.  
  
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We will find a beautiful book in the library with drawings and pressed flowers that you can take to your lady mother as a gift from me.”  
  
“That would work well for me. If I treated her with greater consideration I might be able to convince her to stir herself to be more of an ally to me in some of my disputes with my father.” Gil intended to pursue that loaded remark further another time but did not want to counter the sense of pleasant lassitude to be found in a fragrant garden lit by a hazy moon in the company of this gorgeous youth.  
  
Feeling mellow, content, and slightly tipsy, they wandered deeper into the interior of the gardens enjoying the balmy summer air and the heady scents of common and more exotic bloom. They ended up enjoying the reflection of the moon and stars in a fountain of which Gil was particularly proud—its unique stonework of the classic Westward-looking Noldorin style, harked back to the First Age, but it was tempered by simpler and more modern Dwarven elements.  
  
But they did not speak of flowers or moonlight. They discussed horses, the sport of swordsmanship and other martial arts, poetry, and ancient history. They avoided talk of future alliances, old growth forests, or what kind of timber might be suitable for building the masts of deep-sea sailing vessels. Anardil unconsciously demolished any fear on Gil’s part that his lively intelligence might be limited to only ships and the sea.  
  
At well past midnight, Gil signaled an attendant and ordered them a nightcap of potent, amber brandy which promised to send them relaxed and sleepy off to their own beds, agreeing to meet in the morning for breakfast and plan the following day.  
  
  
  


[1] _The Silmarillion_ gives Gil-galad Fingon as his father. Tolkien later changed him to Orodreth in some notes but never incorporated this version into any narrative. By the time I first encountered Orodreth as a possible paternal figure, my head-canon was firmly established.  
  



	3. The King and his Court

Anardil awakened slowly in the morning to a soft but persistent knocking on his bedroom door. Wondering if this was a wake-up call or even a visitor, he managed to choke out a sleepy, “Enter, please.”  
  
“Good morning, sire,” chirped a diminutive Elf, setting a tray of something hot and aromatic on the bedside table and flinging open the heavy velvet curtains to flood the room with sunlight. Anardil recognized him as the Elf who had served them drinks on the terrace the night before.  
  
“I brought you kaffe. His lordship told me that you liked the kaffe we served after dinner last night. I brought cream and sugar also. That is the way a lot of people here drink it in the morning. I prefer tea myself. Thought it might help you wake up. He asked me to tell you that we have guests for breakfast.” He rolled his eyes and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They were not invited for today, but they are all individuals who are usually welcome whenever they show up. So he could hardly send them away. Just warning you. We think they wanted to have a look at you.”  
  
Anardil wondered if this Elf was young or old. He was boyishly thin and small-boned, with a sprightly youthful manner, but despite his faun-like aspect might have been older than he looked. “And who are you?”  
  
“Oh, sorry! I am the King’s manservant, Carvor. I look after his private rooms and personal effects, his clothing, books, and the like. I wake him and run errands. I keep an eye on his calendar. Remind him if he is running late. Scold him if he forgets appointments. That sort of thing. Not significant but necessary. Light work since he is always a pleasure to serve. I’ll be looking after you too. Whatever you need—just ask me. Nothing is too big or too small!”  
  
“Very pleased to meet you, Carvor. I appreciate your help and will try not to impose.” He never had a personal servant growing up. His mother had not approved of children being spoiled—‘unfit for life’ she would say. After his childhood nurse, he had gone to school, and then to sea. Certain things in the palace were done for him, of course. His room was cleaned, dirty clothes disappeared, and clean sheets appeared on his bed. But he learned everything one needed to know about looking after oneself at school and on ships, taking pride in not being an idle noble, helpless as a babe.  
  
He rolled out of bed in his night shirt, refreshed and clear-headed, and helped himself to a cup of kaffe with cream. “Perhaps you could tell me what I should wear for this social breakfast. I don’t even know where my bags are.”  
  
“I’d be pleased to advise you on appropriate dress! I unpacked everything you brought while you had dinner last night. Put it all in that wardrobe and ironed the badly wrinkled pieces. You have lovely garments, beautifully made—everything you will need. Exotic enough to be interesting without looking too outlandish.”  
  
“Well, that’s a relief,” Anardil said. They looked at one another and broke out laughing. Carvor was yet another proof that this court was not stiff or pretentious or perhaps he was simply an eccentric guy. He began to understand why his grandfather, a blunt man with a common touch, felt so at ease with Círdan and Gil-galad. His mother had also told him once that a court always reflects the character of its king. So, he thought, in this case it is open, warm, honest, and no-nonsense. He felt an almost sensual flush of heat at the thought of this one’s vibrant king. He was infatuated with the High King of the Noldor. He knew it would not lead to anything but he could enjoy the feeling while it lasted. It would add spice to this whole adventure.  
  
Carvor had already started to flip through the clothing hanging in the wardrobe. He pulled out a turquoise tunic, one of Anardil’s favorites, along with dove-grey leggings, both made of light-weight summer wool. “These are wonderful colors! I get so tired of handling black, dark blue, maroon, forest green so deep it’s almost black, etc. Ereinion. . . ah, the King looks marvelous in a bright red, but hardly ever wears it.”  
  
He could all too easily imagine Gil-galad in red. Splendid indeed! That heavy black hair with its auburn highlights, falling around his muscular shoulders against a clear, rich crimson, the high color of it accenting his sculpted cheekbones. That kind of red would make his silver-grey eyes sparkle like stars! Definitely a crush. No point in denying it to himself.  
  
“Do you think that blue will look good on me?” Why not ask? Nothing wrong with wanting to look better than merely presentable for someone so appealing.  
  
“You’ll look really good in the tunic. A perfect color for golden hair and your dreamy blue eyes.”  
  
Anardil succeeded in not laughing, “Thank you, Carvor. You are very helpful. Can you tell me also who will be joining us?”  
  
“Erestor, good friend and counselor to the King. Lord Glorfindel, **_the_** Glorfindel once of Gondolin. Everyone loves him. And the Lady Galadriel close kin to the King—elder cousin of some sort, granddaughter of Finwe, I think—showed up this morning. Pretending not to know you were here. Likely as not needs to find out what she thinks of you and what your visit means. She’s very important. But don’t be intimidated. Her bark is worse than her bite. Just be natural and they all will like you. And remember **_he_** is the King. He is the one who should matter for you.”  
  
0o0o0o0  
  
The smell of fresh baked bread, bacon, and cinnamon reminded Anardil that he usually had eaten by this hour. He was ravenous. Light flooded the breakfast room through its floor to ceiling bay windows. One could hear the sound of the surf and taste and smell the sea in the air.  
  
The spread upon the sideboard was impressive for the number of guests expected. Porcelain tubs of butter, honey, clotted cream, and assorted berry preserves were clustered artfully around a basket loaded with golden brown, steaming bread rolls. A large plate of cinnamon pastries drizzled with a caramel and nut topping rested next to a silver platter of crispy sliced bacon and plump sausages. There were bowls of fresh fruits, silver pots of kaffe and tea and a pitcher of milk. A warming pan of scrambled eggs covered in melting cheese and garnished with fresh dill and sautéed red onions completed the choices for the diners.  
  
Ereinion strode across the room to greet him with a wide, welcoming smile. “I hope you do not mind meeting so many strangers so early in the morning. I’ve warned them to treat you kindly and not to ask you a thousand questions all at once.”  
  
Looking around the room at the four people who had preceded him, he was suddenly aware that while an individual Elf might be confused for a uniquely attractive Man from a distance, a grouping of them in close proximity to one another never could be presumed to be anything but of Elvenkind. The improbably near flawlessness of each distinct individual clearly distinguished them from Mortals. However, Ereinion’s masculine beauty, which initially mesmerized him the night before, already had taken on a familiarity that began to shrink what he had previously thought of as an uncrossable divide between Elves and Men.  
  
“Ah! Here he is, everyone!” Ereinion announced.

“It’s an honor and a privilege to be here, my lords and my lady,” he replied, bowing from the waist, trying his best to sound mature and not like an impressionable youth presented with heroes right out of an illustrated children’s book. It was overwhelming to meet these brave and ambitious survivors of such a turbulent and violent history. He was almost breathless with excitement and some amount of trepidation. The past seemed all too current here. But he was young and optimistic and hoped perhaps they could share a future.  
  
Galadriel was tall—a shade taller than even Glorfindel—slender as a girl and yet appeared to have the strength and agility of a champion athlete. Her neck was long—the expression swanlike came to mind. Her features were finely wrought, lovely as springtime, and yet her striking blue-grey eyes shone like diamonds. She seemed a mixture of all that was hard and bright. She had a strange, numinous beauty that was still entirely human. Powerful—one would not want her as an enemy—but he also sensed she would make a loyal friend. He could not control a smile at the sight of her legendary hair.  
  
Glorfindel had glorious hair as well, but he had tied it back away from his face. Galadriel wore hers wild and untamed. It was not pure gold but a mixture that included shimmering hints of silver. The sunlight shining upon her abundant curls almost made them seem to be moving. He instantly believed the story that he had before thought to be a myth of how Fëanor asked for a tress of that splendid hair and she refused him. That definitely could have happened.  
  
“My lady,” he said, bowing his head, disconcerted but not incapacitated.  
  
“Everyone looks at my hair,” she said, her voice deep and gently teasing in tone. “I do not mind. Women are never too old to enjoy being admired. I am sure people admire your hair also. Right, Glorfindel?”  
  
Glorfindel frowned at Galadriel’s remark but then switched on a warm smile for Anardil. “She refers to the fact that you and I are both fair-haired as well. Draws attention in these parts. Very pleased to meet you indeed, my lord.”  
  
“The honor is all mine, Lord Glorfindel,” Anardil all but stammered, bowing as gracefully as he could. ‘ _Ha_!’ he thought, ‘ _Young man meets boyhood hero_.’  
  
Erestor was smaller than all of them but not as fine-boned and androgynous as Carvor. He was well-muscled and broad-shouldered, with raven colored hair and large amber eyes with delicately arched brows and long, full eyelashes. Definitely a beauty.  
  
“I’m Erestor, your grace,” he said. “Ereinion tells us you are a ship captain, a prince, and the heir apparent to the throne of Númenor. He says you have barely reached your majority, if indeed you have, and already filled with innovative ideas about how to serve your people.”  
  
“My pleasure.” He bowed to Erestor also. “I hope to learn as much as I can from all of you.”  
  
Galadriel interjected in her warm contralto, “Elves are said to be set in their ways. That is only partially true. If things are going well we are unlikely to want to change them. If things do not work well, or we are threatened, it is hard to keep us from acting. We are all happy to hear your ideas. Ereinion has told us very little but what he has shared is intriguing.”  
  
Ereinion interrupted to insist that they fill their own plates—how egalitarian, Anardil thought—and eat their fill before beginning any serious discussions of trade and politics. Galadriel decided that this meant it was open-season for asking the prince about his family, his interests, and his education. He did not mind answering those kinds of questions although he would have preferred not to be so pointedly the center of attention.  
  
Galadriel asked, “Were you spoiled rotten being the eldest and only son with two sisters?”  
  
Glorfindel, who had spoken little to that point, tucked his chin into his chest, and lifted his eyes to the lady with a tone of mild challenge. “Were you spoiled rotten, my lady, being the only girl in a house filled with boys?” He had been a noble in Valinor who remembered her as a child.  
  
For the first time, Anardil could almost imagine the mild-mannered Elf with the lazy smile as the mighty Lord of the House of the Golden Flower in Gondolin so generously celebrated in legend and story.  
  
“You know I was, you wicked man. But anyone who has known me half a day might guess that was the case. For me it was less birth order or even gender and more a question of personality. I am told I was a difficult child.” Everyone laughed aloud except Anardil. She apparently took no umbrage. “I want to know about how our guest was raised. It is not like we have visitors from across the sea that often.”  
  
For brief moment he experienced a wave of nostalgia and longing focusing on his childhood. He felt a rustle in his mind as though a draft moved among dormant memories stirring long forgotten emotions and incidents into vivid intensity—giving them urgent and perplexing significance. It was almost as though Galadriel had touched his mind stirring those embers into flame.  
  
Gil shot his cousin an irritated look. “Don’t play mind games with him.”  
  
Suddenly, even as these thoughts still ran through his mind, Anardil broke free of the feeling of compulsion. He chuckled and smiled at Gil, feeling a little skip of his heart when he met his concerned eyes. “It’s all right. I’m not delicate. I have no secrets. Anyway, if I tell my story, then I expect the rest of you to share personal information about yourselves with me.”  
  
Erestor appreciated that remark and laughed aloud. Even Galadriel shrugged amiably. Glorfindel said, “Just remember the rest of us have been in the same situation with her. You do not have to tell her anything you do not wish to share.”  
  
“All right . . . I’ll try to remember that. I had a peaceful and sheltered early childhood. My first ten or twelve years were pretty ordinary.” He felt mortified for saying that to these people who had all lived through tragedy and worse. “I mean, what would be ordinary, or better than ordinary, for nobility in a safe and prosperous land. My parents loved me and were happy with one another.”  
  
“When my sisters were born I was fascinated by them. But, as time went by, much more was asked of me. I did not mind any of it until recently.”  
  
He sighed and shook his head. “My father acceded to the throne reluctantly. His heart’s joy had always lain elsewhere. I suppose we are more alike than he is willing to admit.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “He wanted only to study the stars. His greatest love was mathematics and its application to the movements of those objects in the night sky. It broke his spirit to have to step away from that work to take on the duties of kingship. It left him not a bitter man but a disappointed and less tolerant one.”  
  
“I see,” Glorfindel commented, “this is why he has been impatient for you to spend less time at sea and more time adapting yourself to idea that you will have to give it up when you take the throne.”  
  
“You must have heard that from Círdan and my grandfather!”  
  
“Oh, yes. Your reputation precedes you. The two of them have great sympathy with your passion for the high seas and exploration.” Glorfindel said. “If they could decide, they would think one of your sisters should rule and allow you to sail the ocean to your heart’s content.”  
  
“Of course they would! I agree women should take their place in the line of succession. That, however, would still leave me the eldest. I could imagine Ailinel wanting to rule and doing a good job of it! Almiel would rather be cast adrift in the middle of the ocean in a row boat without an oar! My father is wrong about one thing. I have never been reluctant to rule, I simply desire to do so in a less traditional way than he has dared to imagine.  
  
“I came here to speak with Ereinion Gil-galad, and listen to your counsel as well, if you should offer it, in the interests of my people and my land.” He stopped to catch his breath feeling like his heat had betrayed too much intemperate passion. He felt vaguely disloyal that he did not actually represent his father and a little reckless that he dared approach this world that his people supposedly had left behind. Yet, he did feel it would be rasher not to try.  
  
“If he keeps talking, his food will turn cold before he is able to eat.” Ereinion said, in an accusatory tone, lowering his eyebrows at Galadriel. He touched Anardil’s hand briefly causing his cheeks to burn.  
  
“Thank you, Gil,” Anardil said, capturing his eyes in which he read tenderness and approval. He hoped that no one would notice he had used the king’s nickname. Perhaps, despite the seeming informality of the gathering, that might appear lacking in discretion.  
  
“Whenever this group comes together, I feel like we need a neutral mediator,” Ereinion said in a serene voice. “And Círdan makes it ten times worse because he lectures me and I snap at him! Our circle has perhaps grown a bit inward looking.”  
  
“Ah! Well, then, If we are not allowed to brow beat Anardil, then it must be the Lady Galadriel’s turn to tell about herself,” Erestor exclaimed, with a note of self-satisfied glee. “She won’t starve. I notice she has already wolfed down two of the cinnamon rolls and most of the bacon.”

Anardil glanced around the table with no more twinges of anxiety. This was a family, of blood and choice, and they had elected to, at least temporarily, include him.  
  
Galadriel imperiously lifted her chin, pointedly not addressing Erestor, but giving Anardil a sweet smile.  
  
“My early childhood was much like your own. Our household was remarkable amongst the Noldor for its harmony. Not so our extended family. As you have probably heard I am the only daughter of the youngest of King Finwë’s sons and the granddaughter of King Olwë of Alqualondë—indisputably royal but not near enough the top of the line of succession for it to have mattered much to me as a very young girl.”  
  
Riveted by the details, Anardil thought this was exactly the type of fascinating first-hand knowledge he had hoped to learn about these people. She gazed tolerantly at him, as though to allow him to finish his thought, before she continued.  
  
“The specter that crept in to spoil my early tranquility had nothing to do with the infamous family strife amongst the Finweans. It was the more general societal expectations placed upon the female sex. I was expected to speak demurely and sweetly at all times, to take more of an interest in fashion and homemaking than in sports or intellectual endeavors. By the flower of my youth, it had become transparently clear to all concerned that I was no ideal woman and never would be.”  
  
Erestor snorted inelegantly and then exclaimed. “I can assure you that _is_ an understatement. I knew her as a child.”  
  
Galadriel gave him an indulgent look. "Perhaps, Erestor, but then that cuts both ways. I also knew you."  
  
Erestor colored slightly. "Well, I guess that brings us to your story then, Erestor," Ereinion said mildly.  
  
“That is cruel! I had a difficult childhood. I came from a broken home. You are not usually a cruel person, Gil. But then perhaps you never heard the sad story of my life in Valinor.” Everyone laughed.  
  
“He is not inventing that part,” added Glorfindel. “His father, the brilliant son of a simple stonemason, became one of Finwë’s favored architects and married a beautiful heiress of a noble family, who herself was a popular illustrator of children’s books. They went on to furnish scandals for the gossip mills of Tirion until halfway through Erestor’s adolescence, when they finally parted.”  
  
“That’s an excellent summary, Glori! I would have spent a lot more time describing how I soaked my pillows with my tears and was teased in school.” Erestor gave Galadriel a beatific smile, making her giggle. “I was your stereotypical poor-little-rich-boy. And I predictably made a long series of terrible choices, spending years as a loyal follower of Fëanor, hanging on from one horror to the next. Then we ran across Elros and Elrond. At a certain point, helping look after them was more or less to lead to my redemption, if one could call it that.”  
  
“They both loved you a lot,” Ereinion said. “Elrond still does. And you are invaluable to me.”  
  
Anardil’s stomach growled loud enough to be heard, an embarrassing punctuation to the conversation. He mumbled an apology and started savagely cutting into one the aromatic and juicy spiced sausages.  
  
Ereinion touched his arm. “Anardil, you do not have to eat those sausages cold. There are plenty of hot ones on the warming plate on the sideboard.” The king stood up took his plate and refilled a new one with all of the same choices, returning it to him warm and steaming.  
  
Finally, Anardil was able to satisfy his ravenous appetite while listening to stories of Valinor, the First Age, and invaluable family anecdotes. After everyone had finished eating, they went for walk on a path that led toward the water from the private side of the palace. It curved and followed alongside the beach, manicured grass on one side and sand on the other. The beautiful day had turned grey and cloudy with a brisk breeze coming off the ocean. Unlike the previous evening the scents of the sea were much stronger than the smell of flowers. He loved that about coastal settlements. Their entire character seemed to change with the weather.   
  
Almost as a group, they halted in place looking out to sea. Erestor came to stand alongside of Anardil looking out at the growing white caps and the waves foaming against the shore.  
  
“I love it when it gets likes this,” he said, exotically beautiful with his heavily-lashed amber eyes squinting against the wind.  
  
“Me too!” Anardil laughed.  
  
“I figured as much. But I think we ought to go inside and find a place to comfortably talk. My advice, young captain, is ‘strike while the iron is hot.’ You have them in the palm of your hand. Don’t lose that moment.”  
  
“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”  
  



	4. All I Ask Is A Tall Ship

  
" _I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,_  
_And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by_."  
John Masefield, “Sea Fever” (1902)  
  


“I’m so cold!” Galadriel said. “Can we find somewhere warm to sit?”  
  
Gil-galad thought she actually looked peaked. And she was still shivering. “Of course,” he said. Wrapping an arm around her, he bellowed, loud enough to hurt his own ears, “Carvor! Where is Carvor?”  
  
Just as he had expected, Carvor popped up in front them, seemingly out of nowhere, carrying an elegant floor-length, midnight-blue velvet cloak, luxuriously thick and warm-looking. It was remarkable how he could do that.  
  
“Sir,” he said bowing deeply.  
  
“Thank you. That’s perfect.” Gil-galad smiled, smug and self-satisfied at Carvor's efficiency. “Look, cousin. He’s brought you a warm wrap. Just like magic.” He took the cape from Carvor and wrapped it snugly around her shoulders, her shivering had begun to lessen slightly since they came in out of the wind.  
  
“Carvor! You are a wonder,” she said cheerfully. “I do envy Ereinion to have you.”  
  
“Thank you, Ma'am.” He turned to Gil-galad. “May I make an unconventional suggestion, Sir?”  
  
“I doubt if it would be wise for me to try to stop you.” Gil was pleased to notice that Anardil caught his eye and grinned. He could not resist surreptitiously brushing the back of the man's hand with his own. The chemistry was unmistakable in a tiny intake of breath he discerned on the part of the prince. Gil still believed he should perhaps slow down and yet, more and more, he found his resolve weakening.  
  
Carvor gently cleared his throat. He missed nothing.  
  
“Sire, your private office is too small for all of you and most of the conference chambers are so big and so drafty, especially, when their tall windows are being buffeted by wind and rain coming from the north. I know a lovely, cozy room which can comfortably accommodate this group. It is used as a sitting and dining room for visiting servants when the palace is full.” Gil cocked his head at him intrigued. “I did say unconventional! I’ve already laid a fire in there and it’s right next to the kitchens . . .”  
  
“You are kicking in an open door. Lead on!” Gil said, turning from Carvor to meet Anardil’s eyes. He thought it was unlikely such a suggestion would ever have been proffered in the court of Númenor. “Carvor is never wrong about things like that,” he explained--half an apology, half an explanation. The lad gave him a winning smile which assured Gil that he was losing no points with him by exposing him to his eccentric colleagues and habits.  
  
They trudged down a half-flight of stairs following Carvor, who led them around a corner, opening a door with a flourish, revealing a warm and cozy, low-ceilinged room. Hanging lamps strategically placed lit the room in a tawny glow. Exposed red bricks ran half-way up the walls and, on one side, a row of windows just below the ceiling were sealed against the rain.  
  
A fire already blazed in the hearth, heating the room against the inclement weather. A simple wooden dining table and benches gave a rustic feeling to the chamber. A somewhat uneven semicircle consisting of a sofa and three overstuffed chairs had been arranged in front of the fireplace and completed the atmosphere of warm and homely comfort.  
  
Galadriel swept by Gil-galad and claimed the chair with a footstool closest to grate, pulling her borrowed cloak tightly around her. “Honestly, Gil, this is magnificent.”  
  
_Maybe not magnificent_ , Gil thought, _but nearly perfect_. He shrugged out of his slightly damp jacket and hung it on a coat rack near the door. As he passed the table again he noticed several steaming pots and pitchers.  
  
As though taking his cue from Gil earlier in the day, Anardil addressed Galadriel. “My lady, may I fetch you a drink. There is quite a selection of warm beverages—kaffe, tea, hot cider, spiced wine. . .”  
  
“Yes, please. I will start with the cider.”  
  
Everyone charged for the table at once. Gil raised his voice to be heard above the tumult. “My dear cousin, would you like a shot of apple brandy in your cider? I see we have that and also a decanter of Miruvor if you need instant heat.”  
  
“I’d very much like my cider spiked with the apple brandy,” she chirped. “Such hospitality and excellent service also! Thank you both.”  
  
“We aim to please.” He caught Anardil’s eye and winked. “I always wanted a home so I could entertain guests. If I am ever deposed, I will run a tavern.”  
  
“Don’t brag, Gil,” Glorfindel drawled, stretching out his long legs and wriggling his stockinged feet in the direction of the fireplace. “All of us have marketable skills. Erestor could be one of those scribes who sets up shop with a folding desk on street corners and composes letters and legal documents for all comers for a pittance. Galadriel, of course, could follow the circuit of village fairs telling fortunes or even run a household or a kingdom.” He waggled his eyebrows at her in the style of a stage villain. Seeing Glorfindel through the eyes of their visitor, Gil thought he made an unconvincing heavy. “And the newest member of our circle would be much in demand as an able-bodied seaman.”  
  
“What about you, you scoundrel?” Erestor demanded of Glorfindel.  
  
“Obviously, I would hire myself out as an armed guard to traveling merchants.”  
  
Carvor popped in again with two platters of impressively large ham and cheese sandwiches redolent with the scent of fresh-baked bread and spicy mustard. “There now,” he said with his usual self-satisfied impudence. “The bread is right out of the oven, you should eat it before . . .”  
  
Gil interrupted, “We’re fine now. Thank you. We will ring if we need anything.” Carvor hovered glancing dubiously at Galadriel, who looked to be happy and at ease, holding her warm cup with two hands and snuggling down into her cozy chair. “Cousin, please tell Carvor you are feeling better or he will never leave us!”  
  
“Oh, thank you, Carvor! Much, much better. You’ve thought of everything.”  
  
Gil then dashed over to the sofa and plopped down, “I claim the sofa for me and Anardil.” Sounding entirely too much like Elrond as a boy, but he got the laugh he had hoped to get from the handsome prince. He hoped his flirting would escape remark. One never knew with this company. Apparently, they were feeling charitable or indulgent because they appeared not to notice and he was certain Erestor, at least, was aware of his growing attraction to Anardil.  
  
After everyone had eaten and was comfortably working on their second or, even third, drink in the case of Gil. He considered how much it felt like a real holiday. Alas, he had relaxed too soon.  
  
“Well, now,” said Galadriel in her haughtiest voice. “I believe that Anardil is here, among other things, to ask us to give him our trees.”  
  
Glorfindel choked on his Miruvor, narrowly avoiding spitting it on himself.  
  
“What gives you that idea?” asked Gil, who exercised enough control to _not_ visibly grind his teeth at her.  
  
“Do not play ignorant with me, Ereinion! Your sources are better than mine and I am quite sure you’ve already guessed. Although, I think it is more likely he has by now raised the topic with you.”  
  
“May I address Lady Galadriel’s concerns, Sir?” Anardil asked Gil, switching to the formal form of address, but not sounding cowed by Galadriel’s less than diplomatic introduction of the topic. Another rush of affection swept over Gil. He was not a young pup who, under any circumstances, would rely on someone else to fight his battles for him.  
  
“If you like,” Gil said.  
  
“I did touch upon the subject of an exchange of resources with the King. I did mention my need for wood and your vast forests. But we both chose to defer any substantial discussions until I was more knowledgeable of your lands and peoples and the plausibility of my speculations. It also was clear to me that the King preferred to share such discussions with his trusted counsellors although that was not made explicit either,” Anardil explained in a soft, strong voice. Only the increasing density of his Númenórean accent revealed his tension.  
  
“So, should I trust you, young man? Should I perhaps seek to teach you? Or should I believe that you will make better choices faced with complicated circumstances than I was able to do myself earlier in my life?” she challenged. “I will not be your strongest opponent here in Middle-earth. My spouse, Celeborn of Doriath, is capable of fighting tooth-and-claw over every tiny tree. Have you heard of him?”  
  
Anardil smiled. “I have indeed. I attended to my studies. That was my bargain with my father—in exchange for spending time amongst shipwrights and sailors, I was required to excel in my studies of language, literature, and, most of all, our history. Would you trust me more, my lady, if I were to first tell of the worst that I have done? Then you could judge for yourself if I am willing to admit to my errors and eager to learn from them.”  
  
“You do not lack in courage, Captain,” Galadriel said, gifting him with a dazzling smile. Gil recognized something in her tone that he was certain that Anardil could not. The prince had more than halfway won her over to, at very least, consider this alliance with guarded favor.  
  
“I will accept your challenge,” she said. “Tell me your worst.”  
  
He turned to Gil and gave him a shaky smile. “Sir, could you perhaps give me just a small taste of that Miruvor?”  
  
“Of course,” Gil said. “I should, however, warn you that, although it goes down smoothly, it has a kick like a mule.”  
  
“Are you saying that I shouldn’t?”  
  
“Far from it! You are among friends after all,” Gil said. Anardil reached for his hand, squeezed it and just as quickly let go, giving him a weak smile.  
  
“All right then. Where do I start? Building ships requires vast quantities of wood. A ship the size and weight of _Númerrámar,_ which you may have seen at anchor in the harbor, requires over a thousand trees to build. A mature tree of the type required may take as long as sixty years to grow and the trees harvested for masts take longer. For many years, we have been struggling to find sufficient Oaks of the quality needed for the hulls. And, by now, we have entirely depleted our native forests of trees suitable for masts.  
  
“At first our shipbuilders were not conscious of the degree of deforestation they were causing. Later they were shocked to discover the profound effects of the same—such as soil erosion, loss of species of plants and animals, and even changes in the weather. We have since begun to take steps to remedy that initial careless destruction. But it is easier to destroy than it is to rebuild. As I keep reminding anyone who will listen, we are an island with a growing population. My father is in the process of trying to ban the harvesting of lumber for use in the shipbuilding industry.  
  
“Meanwhile, I have been organizing large scale efforts of planting trees to try to restore lost forests and reclaim devastated landscapes. The stories of our past have told us of endless forests of Middle-earth and we have heard through people like my grandfather of the rumors of your current hardships and the ongoing threats that your peoples endure. I could not help but be aware of the possibilities of forming an alliance to help one another.”  
  
Galadriel looked at Anardil, steely-eyed and skeptical. But Gil recognized by her struggle to control the smile muscles around her mouth that she was impressed with his analysis.  
  
“Well,” Galadriel said. “You rushed through the details of at least one hundred years of poor judgment and wanton eradication of the most valuable natural resources. The tale does not lend one to want to cast an immediate vote of confidence in any of your schemes. For example, are you proposing that we should support you by granting you complete access to our forests now that you have consumed your own?”  
  
Gil’s heart lurched in sympathy with how his captain—so young and earnest—would react to her brusque remark. Everyone else in the room was riveted as well, watching Anardil’s face for a reaction. Instead of the crestfallen look that Gil had expected, Anardil released a soft huff of a laugh and shook his head with a smile.  
  
“If it sounded that way, dearest lady, then I did not express myself clearly. I do not need _all_ of your largest first-growth trees.” Cheeky rascal, Gil thought.  
  
“Oh,” she said, laughing. “That is a relief.”  
  
“Actually, I had hoped to stay for a year or so, visiting different parts of this vast continent. As I mentioned briefly to Gil-galad, I do not come simply to rob you, but to offer help, be it settlers who bring knowledge and expertise, economic contributions, technology, and defense. I would not presume to offer concrete proposals until I knew much more than I know.” He turned to Gil and took hold of his arm, “I would consider you both an ally and mentor, Gil. I am a fast learner. I would look to all of you and others for guidance and opinions. I do not expect your woodlands to solve my shipbuilding problems, only advances and improvements in technology can do that.”  
  
Galadriel said, “I do not have a closed mind, far from it. And, Ereinion is my king and this land is his responsibility. I may seem like an interfering older kinswoman, bossy and ready to throw cold water on any propositions. Quite the contrary, I trust Ereinion and respect his ultimate authority.”  
  
Erestor grinned and Gil chuckled shaking his head. “Indeed, I believe her when she says she is a loyal subject. She interferes enough to keep me honest and force me to question myself. Right, Galadriel? She is totally disinterested and altruistic.” That got a laugh from everyone.  
  
“I might admit to some modest plans of my own,” Galadriel said. “Someday I hope Lord Celeborn and I can find a corner somewhere to stake out a small realm of our own.” Gil had heard her talk of that aspiration his entire life and felt at times like it could not happen soon enough.  
  
Carvor popped his head in the door. “The kitchen needs to know if you want a regular full dinner in the dining room or would you be satisfied with a little supper here? Cook is making fruit pies and cakes.”  
  
After the small supper, everyone else drifted off, satiated from food and drinks and what felt to Gil like a cathartic and emotional discussion, leaving him and Anardil alone.  
  
Gil threw a couple of logs onto the fire, sat down on the sofa, and held his arms open. Anardil blushed but did not hesitate to accept the invitation and snuggled into his arms, burrowing his nose into Gil’s neck. They stayed like that for a long while.  
  
“I was proud of how you held your ground with Galadriel,” Gil said. “You wrung out of her one of the few compliments she has given me, not to mention an explicit declaration of fealty.”  
  
"I am happy if that is true. Your presence gave me courage. I feel an unusual connection to you," Anardil said.

"As I do to you."

"I think I would like to go upstairs . . . .”  
  
“That can be arranged,” Gil said. He wanted to kiss him then and there, but he was still second guessing the signals he was receiving.  
  
TBC


	5. Heartsease

Anardil lay in bed, with the windows open, and listened to the gentle rising and falling of the surf. The bad weather had passed and the world felt fresh and new—what a worn-out image he thought. He did not have the wherewithal to come up with a better one. It was a lovely, warm, still night, with an almost eerily calm ocean. One did not need to be a poet to think it might be a perfect night to fall in love. Then he again cursed himself as a clumsy fool and tried to relax once more.  
  
He could not resist mulling over and over snippets of conversation from his long and unexpectedly strenuous day. One must think about essential issues—quite enough reminiscing for one night about the lush red lips and husky laugh of a handsome king. He had every reason to hope that he would eventually get his timber and that he and Gil would be encouraged to cultivate the alliance which he had so dearly hoped to negotiate. He was not sure Tar-Meneldur would approve of how much he had taken upon himself. But then he did not believe his father would try to interfere either.   
  
He tried to relax, humming to himself an old, old song with a wistful and romantic theme that dated to the Elder days, probably written by Maglor. Unable to recall its name and only a few of the words, he finally snubbed out his candle, hoping sleep would come, but his restless mind would not permit it. Then he heard a soft tapping on the door—definitely _not_ Carvor's knock.  
  
He realized he had been waiting for that sound. “Gil?” he whispered—wistful, hopeful. Then he leapt out of bed, not bothering to cast a robe over his night shirt. He cautiously eased the door open a crack and with all of the tremulousness of a virgin maid he peeked around the edge. He felt foolish, embarrassed, and jubilant all in a matter of seconds. Gil stood there in his night clothes—loose trousers and a floppy tunic. It stuck him as almost humorous how good he looked standing in the dim light of the hallway sconces in those shapeless garments, how discernible was his impressive form.  
  
“It is you! I was afraid it might not be, or perhaps I had jumped to conclusions, or even that you might have expected me to look for you!”  
  
Gil looked shy and wily at the same time. What a stew of heady emotions! “You wouldn’t have known where to find me. And, anyway, I don’t have a lot of patience and tend to think in practical terms. Like, even if you wanted to see me, you would not know where to look. May I please come in?”  
  
“Come in. Please come in. What a relief. I am such a child! I am so glad you are here.”  
  
“You don’t look like a child.” Gil let his eyes run up and down him with a touch of bold lasciviousness that he not shown him before. “You _are_ a feast for the eyes.”  
  
“Seriously, Gil! I know I am a better than average looking mortal but you are an ageless, gorgeous Elven King—desirable beyond the stuff of daydreams that only a sex-starved adolescent could seriously entertain. Come in and sit on the bed with me. Now that you are finally here I do not intend to let you easily slip away.”  
  
“You ridiculously undermine yourself and overrate me, but if that allows you to invite me into your bed, I will indefinitely postpone arguing about it!” His eyes so filled with silver fire and mischief sent waves of excitement sweeping over Anardil. Gil smiled at him and left him breathless. If a smile did that to him, what would a kiss do?  
  
“So, young captain, do you really find me attractive? I was not certain but I decided if I did not take a chance and try to find out that I might regret it until the end of Arda.”  
  
“I love that you are so dramatic. It is far from the end of Arda and here we are—hot and happy with an entire night before us and a large soft bed. We do not have any tight breeches or cumbersome laces, or complicated buckles, or even any reason to be quiet or wary of discovery. I am here and open to you. Whatever you want of me I can willingly offer!”  
  
Anardil fell back on the plushy bed opening his arms and then he sat back up and pulled his nightshirt over his head.  
  
Gil said, “Oh, my! You are definitely hot and hard, and well-made. I had extravagant hopes for you since I first laid eyes on you, my dear, but you exceed expectations. Before I lose complete control, I ought to ask you one question. Have you made love to a man before?”  
  
“I guess I have,” he blustered. “Well ‘making love’ is a rather high-sounding romantic expression for the kinds of things I have done. I am a sailor, you know. And sailors spend months at sea, away from family, friends, wives, and sweethearts. Also, I should mention that it has been a long time since I could have been characterized as what someone called me earlier today—an able-bodied seaman. Officers have to be far more circumspect in their behavior and there are proscriptions relating to what is appropriate and inappropriate behavior between enlisted men and their superiors. It has been a few years since I was but an ordinary lad among equals.”  
  
Gil threw back his head and laughed loud. “I do love the way you talk. You are so articulate and straightforward.”  
  
Uncertainty was not an option for Anardil at that moment. “So, are we good then? If you do not mind being somewhat of a mentor. . . I do not want to be vulgar but the longer we negotiate . . .”  
  
Gil shut him up with a devouring, desperate kiss. After a few moments of a kiss the likes of which Anardil had never experienced or even imagined, he had to pull back, short of breath and giddy, to look at his lover. The undisguised lust that flickered unchecked across Gil sculpted face almost made him spend. But then he fell into an almost dreamlike trance of arousal and response. Gil knew exactly how to touch him, when to be tender and when a bit rougher, when to tease and when to gratify.  
  
This was really happening. Two days ago they did not know one another. Gil was passionate and insistent and yet he made Anardil feel supported, cared for, and cherished. He thought of how he had told Gil that he had never really made love before. He had no idea how right he had been.  
  
When they had finished, Gil held him close and still in his embrace until they began to drift back from a trancelike state into some semblance of reality. Finally Gil whispered teasingly into his ear, “Will you call that _not really making love_?”  
  
Anardil flipped onto his back, pulling Gil on top of him, and grabbed his smirking face between both of his hands. “Don’t be an arrogant ass. It really is unbecoming after an experience like that!”  
  
“So it was good for you too, sweetheart?” Gil asked, tickling him. Suddenly, they both were laughing and rolling around on the bed.  
  
“You are beautiful! Admit it was spectacular. We are amazing together.”  
  
When they finally settled down again, Anardil said. “Hmm. I admit it was very nice. But perhaps we need a little practice.”  
  
“I can live with that. We can practice until you can’t sit down and can barely walk.”  
  
He responded impatiently, "Oh, Gil, can't you see that it was so good that now I am terrified. How can I ever walk away from this?" Anardil was still holding onto an instinctual self-protection.  
  
"I could say the same but I will not. One can never live well if one is afraid of being hurt. And, anyway, I do like to think that I am good at this. I am on good terms with all of my former lovers. But it is silly to think about that now. Let us enjoy the newness of being together, appreciate the surprises, the wonder of discoveries. We will only have this opportunity one time. Let us think of this as the beginning of a significant friendship."  
  
"Be kind to me," Anardil said.   
  
"I promise that I will be. And I hope that you will open yourself to me. Let me explain something. I have always avoided even a casual encounter of this sort with one of the Secondborn. The reason for that is that they are the ones who always leave.

“So, your logic is a little flawed. I am the one who is taking the risks here and it is worth it to me. You are charming, funny, beautiful, optimistic, and idealistic. I feel young and more determined since I met you. So let us allow events to happen as they will. The worst thing that can happen is that we will have brought joy to one another for however short or long it lasts.  
  
“The way it will work is that you will return to Númenor, you will marry a lovely maid, you will have beautiful children, and for better or worse you will die serving your people on that problematic and beloved island of yours. And I will live on without you. Hopefully with lovely memories.”  
  
“So why would we even want to put ourselves through all of this if this is bound not to work out?”  
  
“Best reason there is, captain.” Gil gave him a soft, heart-melting smile. “Like the brokenhearted lover in that song you were humming before I knocked. For heartsease!”


End file.
